


The Sweetest Music

by Twisted_Mind



Series: Irredeemable Filth: The Steter Collection [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Crying Stiles, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Peter Hale, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5154626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles looks up at him, eyes angry and wet. It's precious, that he thinks his anger means anything when he's bruising his knees on the floor between Peter's thighs.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetest Music

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: this one is absolutely BelleAmante's fault. This trash would not have been written, let alone posted, were it not for her shameless cheerleading. (And betaing.) *blows kisses* 
> 
> Secondly: Peter is basically his own warning. Some of what happens here seems pretty amoral and/or selfish, but is consensual nonetheless.

"You're sure?"

Stiles looks up at him, young and eager. Peter can't wait to make a mess of him. "I want to learn."

Peter nods. “You remember what to do?" he asks, even as he draws the bound boy closer with his legs.

"I remember."

"Time for the practical application, then." And with that, Peter eases himself past plush lips and into Stiles's hot mouth. He groans at the sight. Stiles is perfect like this, on his knees with his lips stretched wide around a cock. His cock. Peter wants to keep him there for hours. Possibly forever.

He starts slow, letting Stiles set the pace as they warm up. But after a few minutes, he cups his boy's face with both hands and guides him down, down, all the way down, until Stiles's gag reflex is fluttering madly around his cock and the boy is fighting to pull away. "None of that, now," Peter chastises, despite letting the boy back off. Just a little, though. He's not letting his cock leave that mouth.

Peter waits as Stiles splutters and gasps, but doesn't try to pull away. Smart boy. After a couple minutes, he looks up and nods.

"Deep breath, darling," Peter advises. He could wind his fingers in the boy’s thick hair, and use that to guide him, but it’s less personal and less reliable than he prefers. Peter likes to grip his boy firmly round the jaw, to feel as Stiles works to open wide and accommodate the flesh filling his mouth, muscles straining under Peter’s palms.

He forces himself down that elegant throat, closing his eyes to properly appreciate being encased in tight, wet heat. Peter thumbs over his boy’s cheekbones, holding him there effortlessly, unwilling to give up the feeling of a vulnerable boy choking on his cock. The wet sounds of Stiles's throat working are obscene. It's beautiful.

Unfortunately, he needs to let the boy up. Stiles would need air if he was going to stay conscious, and unconscious boys didn’t make good cocksuckers. So Peter eases him back.

Stiles looks up at him, eyes angry and wet. It's precious, that he thinks his anger means anything when he's bruising his knees on the floor between Peter's thighs.

"You _asked_ for this, remember," Peter tells him in his most condescending tone. And then he's pushing back into the boy's mouth, letting his hips rock in a lazy rhythm. He's not going deep, not yet, but it doesn't mean that talented tongue feels any less glorious.

"You're going to breathe in as I pull out." Peter waits until he hears the vague affirming noise before he starts bringing Stiles's head down as he thrusts upwards, the head of his dick pushing into his boy's throat with an audible 'pop'.

He keeps going, pushing a little deeper with each thrust, until the boy is taking him to the base. He's mostly stopped fighting, which would be disappointing except for the way he gives the occasional futile jerk. Peter wonders where he thinks he can go, held by Peter's hands and legs and voice.

Peter picks up the pace, the teasing drag in and out no longer satisfying. The salt tang in the air makes him smile when paired with the intensifying scent of Stiles's arousal. Peter wants to lick the tears from his flushed cheeks. (Later.)

Peter lets himself go, fucking his boy’s face with more hunger than caution. Stiles’s breaths are hitching and irregular, his tears slicking Peter’s palms. Peter doesn’t care.

His orgasm is building quickly, driven as much by the way his boy enjoys being used as by the fact he’s plunging his cock into blissful heat. He’s so close. He could draw this out, keep the boy on his knees for another twenty minutes, _easy_ , but Peter’s a hedonist. And werewolf stamina means round two isn’t out of the question.

“So pretty like this,” Peter murmurs. “Now, do I come down your throat, or across your face? Decisions, decisions.”

In the end, the desire to gag his boy wins out.

Peter jerks the boy’s head down suddenly, disrupting their fast-but-steady rhythm. Startled, Stiles chokes. Peter holds him down, launched into orgasm by the way his boy gags and tries to cough, the way the hint of panic doesn’t dispel his arousal in the slightest.

“You were made for this.” Peter groans as he pumps come down the boy’s throat. He’s nearly cradling his boy, hunching over Stiles, legs pressing tight to broad shoulders. It’s almost tender, the way he’s holding the boy’s head. Except for the way Stiles is choking, airway jammed by Peter’s thick cock.

Peter can hear his lungs strain, and combined with the frantic workings of his throat are the sweetest music Peter’s ever heard. He can’t wait to hear it again.

He releases his boy reluctantly. Stiles presses his wet face against Peter’s thigh as he heaves in gasping breaths. When he looks up, Peter can’t help feeling proud.

His boy’s face is red, eyelashes spiky and cheeks drenched with involuntary tears. His lips are puffy, dark, cracked on one side. Saliva slicks his chin.

“You’re a bastard,” he rasps, throat raw. He sounds like he’s been gargling gravel. Peter wonders idly how much it would take to make him lose his voice entirely.

“You knew that long before you got on your knees and let me fuck your face,” Peter reminds him, thumbing carefully at the split lip. He should probably let that heal before using his boy’s mouth again. “I seriously doubt it’ll stop you from doing so in the future.”

The boy licks at Peter’s thumb before giving a sly smile. “It won’t.”


End file.
